I don’t often preach on Job, but I did last week; the text was extended sections of chapters 36 & 37, the last chapters before God speaks to Job out of the whirlwind. I appreciated the opportunity to wrestle with a challenging text, a challenging book, and be reminded that good news can come even without clear answers.
Seeking Good News in the Book of Job
When I think of biblical books full of gospel promise, and good news, Job is not at the top of that list. Quite the opposite, in fact. And I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. In common parlance, even for those who aren’t Christian or don’t know the Bible well, Job is associated with suffering and loss—particularly unjust suffering and loss.
And, as those of us who have read Job know, Job himself did nothing to warrant the loss of so much, even though his interlocuters go to great lengths to find a reason and justify Job’s suffering. And this is understandable: we’re humans, so we like to have reasons for things. It makes us feel in control, and I think it also inspires agency: if we know what went wrong, maybe we can fix it.
Chapters 36 & 37 come at the very end of a long string of explanations and justifications from Job’s three friends, which began many chapters ago. In turn, each of them offers a reason why all of these terrible things have happened to Job, with the focus on emphasizing that somehow, this must all be his fault. In my NRSVue Bible, these explanations helpfully have titles: Job has sinned; Job should repent; Job’s guilt deserves punishment; Job’s wickedness is great. Let me just say that I hope you have better friends than Job; and if not, please find some new ones!
These chapters are the end point of this long, long litany of accusation, and in this position, they function as a hinge of sorts—a pivot point. They shift the focus of the dialogue from this back-and-forth between Job and his friends, which has careened between accusation and lament, between charge and defense, to God: to God’s action, God’s agency and God’s authority. They pave the way for God to speak, to answer Job out of the whirlwind, and declare God’s sovereignty over the entire creation: animals, weather systems, seas and skies. What can Job say in the face of the one who fishes for the Leviathan, who commands the flight of the eagle and the hawk, who births the ice and hoarfrost? Nothing, as it turns out—except to repent, and to intercede for those ignorant friends, whom God chooses to spare, thanks to Job’s magnanimity. And then, as we know, God puts a bow on this whole thing and restores Job’s fortunes two-fold, as though that were enough. If there were ever a book crying out for an epilogue, it is Job—but we don’t have that.
Instead,we have these verses, cropped from the larger story—this monologue from Elihu, exalting God’s goodness. As I try to make sense of them, in light of the whole, I see them as an invitation to step away from the prior chapters and chapters of false explanations and hollow justifications and step across the threshold, into God’s world—a world that is majestic and wondrous, terrifying and threatening, breathtaking and mysterious. A world that, ultimately, despite all our efforts to the contrary, we do not, we cannot control. If nothing else, Job dispels any illusions we have of mastery of our own lives, let alone mastery of the universe. But you know that.
No one knows better than farmers, and others who live and work close to the land, that doing everything right is no guarantee of abundance. Planting the right crops, at the right time, in the right place, does not guarantee a good harvest. Being careful with forest management does not guarantee that lightning won’t start a massive fire. Even the most heartfelt and earnest prayers cannot guarantee an end to a drought or the receding of flood waters. And, honing the focus even more: all the self-care and caution in the world does not keep cancer at bay, protect against acts of violence, or prevent freak accidents.
Sometimes, the universe seems blithely unconcerned about our welfare, and God seems indifferent at best, if not hostile.
Yet, at the same time, we know this is not true. We know that God does care about God’s creation: every bit of it, every prairie, every lake, every animal, every human, every plant. And God does hear our prayers, God does respond to the needs of God’s creation, and God does act. But certainly, not always on our timeline, not always in the ways we expect or desire, and not always in accordance with our plans. We’ve all been Job, at one time or another, trying to make sense of tragedy in our lives, in our communities, wondering what we’ve done wrong, wondering how we can make it better.
Now, I am afraid we have come this far in the sermon only for you to be disappointed, because I don’t have any answers to this both/and dialectic: horrible things happen, and God deeply loves and cares for God’s creation. I don’t have a pithy response or a deep thought to fully reconcile this tension. The book of Job simply does not give us that; but, frankly, neither does the Lutheran theological tradition. We can wrestle with the angel, cry out like the Psalmist, and bargain with God like Abraham—but this side of the resurrection, we see only shadows through the glass, not clear answers.
What I will leave you with, however, are the closing words from the introduction to Job in The Lutheran Study Bible. There, Luther Seminary professor Kathryn Schifferdecker writes, “The book of Job is a profound meditation on the mystery of suffering. It invites new questions and new interpretations from every generation of readers. Most importantly it invites its readers into an encounter with God, the God of life who created and sustains the world in love and who, through the cross of Christ, enters fully into the suffering of that world and redeems it.”
At its best, authentic Christian life stems from this kind of transformative encounter with God—the God of life—who bears with great care our lament, praise, argument, and thanksgiving. This God animates the life of the baptized with meaning, purpose, and deep joy, even amidst our suffering and our sorrow. This God provides hope, casts a vision for the future, and invites us to walk of promise. This God—our God—continually creates and re-creates the whole world, and will, in the end, restore and redeem us all, together.
Happy Lutheran 